


Caught

by AngelPussy



Category: EVANS Johannes T. - Works, Powder and Feathers - Johannes T. Evans
Genre: Begging, Belly Kink, Captivity, Caught, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Driders, Egg Laying, Eggpreg, Eggs, Fallen Angels, Giant Spiders, Humiliation, Inflation, M/M, Masochism, Oviposition, Painful Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Size Difference, Size Kink, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27230155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelPussy/pseuds/AngelPussy
Summary: Jean-Pierre gets caught in a spider's web.
Relationships: Asmodeus/Jean-Pierre Delacroix, Jean-Pierre Delacroix/OCs
Comments: 2
Kudos: 96





	Caught

It was his own fault, flying below the tree line.

It was a magical wood, the thrum of magic heavy on the air, and he could feel it in the power of the ancient trees on every side, each of them growing up very, very high. It was dark underneath their huge canopy, although it was a bright and sunny day, but he didn’t want to be seen his wings spread wide as he glided forward.

There were fae territories within it, that much was evident from the way that magic flowed through it, creating natural rivers and tributaries of energy, the natural boundaries of one realm with the next.

As he flew, he could feel the slight catch and shift of magic on the air, pointing here to an invisible territory line, not to be crossed, pointing there to a secreted portal. He felt them as one might feel a change in the wind, and flew past every one of them, onward, forward.

Perhaps it was because of those that he was distracted.

The very tip of his left wing caught on a thick spread of spider’s web, which formed a grey film between two yew branches, and he let out a sound of irritation as he fumbled on the air, having to beat hard with his other wing to keep from falling. He tried to draw his wing out of the mess of it, but as he leaned away his other wing caught on another piece of web.

Letting out an irritated hiss of sound, he tried to kick at the air, suspended as he was between the two great swathes of web, and reached back into his satchel for a box of matches, even as he continued to beat his wings, barely managing to keep his position.

One of the webs tore unexpectedly, and he lost his footing on the air as he felt one of his muscles awkwardly pull, sending a sudden numb sensation down one wing for a moment – it wasn’t unlike hitting his funny bone unexpectedly and getting a numb hand.

There were greater times for pins and needles than when one was suspended eighty feet above the ground.

He let his body go limp as he fell, spreading his wings out as widely as he could instinctively: had there been undergrowth beneath him, as he expected, he would have landed softly on the ground, would have been able to work the webs out of his feathers and groom himself before taking off again.

There was more web waiting for him, spread out at human – and angel – height in thick, heavy nets, and he landed at an angle, falling onto his back. It was so sticky he wanted to cry.

Spreadeagled, his wings outstretched on the thick carpet of web underneath him, he grunted, shifting in his place. The web was sticking to the backs of his arms and his legs, and it was difficult to pull himself free because of how he was spread on it, like an insect trapped on the top of a pond’s water, unable to free itself from the power of its surface tension.

He shifted uncomfortably, craning his neck to try and see where his matches had fallen, but he couldn’t see them nearby, and when he tried to reach for the satchel pinned around his waist, he found he couldn’t move his hand enough to do so.

He would have to burn the web underneath him, and he wrinkled his nose at the thought of singeing his feathers in the process, but there was no other way free that he could see. His right hand had punched through the surface of the web and was tangled, stuck, but his left he could move, and he flexed his fingers, drawing a few symbols in quick succession on the air.

The spell almost lit – it was clumsy, awkward work, weaving enchantment on air instead of a proper surface, but he would be a licensed master enchanter if he could ever bother to take the exams, and he was good at what he did: he felt the runes flare beneath his palm, felt the flame spread outward, smelt the first acrid furl of smoke, and then a hand closed over his.

His enchantment was doused in the work of a moment, and Jean-Pierre was silent, staring dumbly up at the spider looming over him. He was a great, hugely muscular creature, with a humanesque form that, at the waist, morphed back into a huge, fat, thickly-furred abdomen.

From a medical perspective, he knew that the biology of arachnid people was not unlike that of a true spider: they had complicated biology but no blood, and their apparently human halves mimicked the species only in shape. Were he to reach out in this moment and brush the spider’s sculpted chest, he would not feel warm skin: it would be a leathery outer carapace, soft in the way of a beetle’s scleratized wings, and the hair on the spider’s head would be no different in texture or make-up to the many spiny hairs that covered his eight segmented legs and abdomen.

The spider’s lower half was a dark, deep brown, with streaks of dark orange through it: his skin was the same shade as the latter, a skin colour no human or angel would ever have, bright and visibly supernatural, the colour polished copper might be in a cartoon.

He had two primary eyes, and they were mobile, in eye sockets not dissimilar to that of a human’s, but they were a solid black: dotted along the bottom edge of each eye, he saw more rounded dots, more eyes.

Arachnid people didn’t have the range of vision true arachnids did—

He was, it occurred to him, anxious, and overwhelmed. Medical revision could be an unexpected comfort.

The spider was examining him, he realised, a hitch in his throat. His fingers touched and pressed at Jean-Pierre’s chest over his blouse, pushed and prodded at Jean-Pierre’s flesh. The fingers were strange to the touch, cool but not cold, and their joints were articulated in the same way his legs were.

“I can’t get free,” Jean-Pierre said breathlessly. “I’m stuck.”

“This is the purpose of webbing,” the spider explained helpfully: his voice had a chittering quality, and his jaw opened in a way a human jaw would not, his mandibles shifting as he spoke. “Insects, birds, small fae, get caught in our webbing. We feel the pull on the thread, and then we can set upon our prey, and eat it.”

“Yes,” Jean-Pierre said, forcing a charming smile onto his face, although he was nervous, twitchy, hated how entirely trapped he felt. “I know. But look at me – I am far too large to be prey – and far too beautiful. Don’t you agree?”

The spider considered this, tilting his head to the side. He did have lips, after a fashion, that showed only when his mouth was closed, little outcrops of rounded flesh either side of his mouth, and the lips smiled now.

“You are beautiful,” he said softly, and his hands dragged and pulled at Jean-Pierre’s blouse, pulling it up from where it was tucked into his breeches: the hands slid up, underneath the fabric, and Jean-Pierre shuddered out a sigh as the spider’s fingers pressed on the flat flesh of his belly, tracing his ribs, pressing on his chest.

He felt for the scars, too, and Jean-Pierre watched the way his expression changed, his brows furrowing slightly in thought. As the spider’s fingers traced over the various scars dappling Jean-Pierre’s chest, his belly, his brow furrowed further, and as he spread one hand flat on Jean-Pierre’s stomach, he reached up with the other, tracing two delicate fingers over the one on Jean-Pierre’s cheek.

“Are you human?” he asked. “You don’t feel fae.”

“No,” Jean-Pierre said softly. “I’m an angel. Do you know what that is?”

The spider shook his head.

“I am not your prey,” Jean-Pierre said softly, trying to shift in his place, still stuck fast, “you should release me.”

“Your blood is hot,” the spider said. “Like a bird’s – like a human’s.”

“I’m hardier than a human,” Jean-Pierre said. “Stronger.”

“Really?” the spider asked, and he sounded pleased: it was not in a tone Jean-Pierre liked, but he could see his opportunity here.

“Why don’t you cut me out of my clothes?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, curving his lips into a smile he knew to be enticing, charming. “You can see more of me, doing that – you will bear more of my flesh to your sight. Don’t you wish to see what I look like, underneath?”

“We don’t wear clothes,” the spider murmured. “Some of the fae do.”

He evidently needed no further convincing, because with sharp fingertips, he sliced a line up the front of Jean-Pierre’s blouse, and cut two more down his sleeves. It was a shame, but he never wore his best clothes to fly long distances in, and so Jean-Pierre made no complaint as he remained rested on the fabric of his blouse, twisting his wrists subtly free of the webbing even as the spider occupied himself with cutting loose Jean-Pierre’s breeches.

He was visibly fascinated with Jean-Pierre’s cunt.

Jean-Pierre bent his knees, subtly pulling his boots free from the web, and in the process spread his legs, giving the spider a better view even as he slipped his fingers into the satchel beside his waist – it was stuck fast to the web, and didn’t drop even though the strap had been cut with his blouse. He felt for his knife, squeezed its familiar wooden handle under his palm: _this_ was enchanted, and he wouldn’t need to hold it in his hand to cut himself free.

The web was still stuck to his hair, and with his wings spread out he couldn’t crane his head forward too much, but he could lean forward enough on the fabric behind him to see that the spider was perched on the spread web, and that it stretched out far – his best route of escape would be via the trees, moving upward, dodging his way between the rest of the web and flying up through the canopy, but that would only be if he _could_ cut his wings free fast enough, and he doubted that.

To bring his wings _in_ , then, and flee on foot.

Less than ideal.

“The skin is so pink here,” the spider said softly, and he did not hesitate in reaching out to touch him: his fingers were gentle as he traced the gathered flesh around his clit, and then traced lower down, either side of his lips. Demonstratively, Jean-Pierre clenched, and the spider released a fascinated sound, leaning in closer to examine him.

His hand hidden within the leather of his satchel, Jean-Pierre sent an emergency text to Asmodeus, relying on muscle memory where he couldn’t see the screen, and sighed as the spider traced one finger over the slightly wet opening of his cunt, playing over the wetness there before pressing further in. Jean-Pierre hummed, tipping his hips up and into the spider’s hand even as he sent his knife behind him, cutting himself free where his hair was stuck.

He could bring his wings in, he decided.

It would be uncomfortable, to fold them into himself when they were so dirty with filth and sticky silk, but it would be quicker than cutting himself free, and he would need a quick escape, he thought.

There was no threat being made, not just yet, and he didn’t want to kill this spider for no reason: the spider was young, it seemed to him, and he was curious about Jean-Pierre, fascinated by him. Jean-Pierre was something alien, fallen into his web, and he wanted to know more about him.

What could be more natural than that?

“You may call me Jean-Pierre,” he said, and then sighed as the spider pushed more of his fingers forward. “That feels nice. What should I call you?”

It was a pleasant sensation – clumsy, and based in curiosity more than a desire to please, but the spider’s fingers were gentle as they pressed and rubbed at Jean-Pierre’s walls, and he seemed pleased as Jean-Pierre responded, wetness gathering on his fingers.

The knife was back in Jean-Pierre’s hands.

“So warm,” the spider said, more to himself than to Jean-Pierre himself.

“What should I call you?” he repeated, and the spider glanced up at him.

“Branimir,” the spider said. “You are warm-blooded. This channel… you would give birth through this?”

“If I gave birth,” Jean-Pierre said, feeling his eyes flutter closed a moment as Branimir thrust his fingers into him, keeping up a slow, easy rhythm, so that Jean-Pierre grew wetter under his hand, even as with the other he stroked over Jean-Pierre’s stomach again, pressing down on the flesh. “I have a womb, but no ovaries.”

The spider looked at him, his blank eyes uncomprehending, and with a warm smile, shifting his shoulders as he readied to draw his wings back into him, Jean-Pierre said, “I produce no eggs.”

The spider peered down at him, perplexed. “Are all angels like you?”

“Not all of them have wombs, but the ones that do have no eggs. We can neither fertilise one another, nor be fertilised.”

The spider stared at him: three of his fingers were curving as they thrust inside him, and he asked, “How do you breed?”

“We don’t.”

The spider drew his fingers free, stroking over Jean-Pierre’s thigh, and Jean-Pierre folded his wings away. He fell backward, and the spider let out a sound of alarm, scuttling after him as Jean rushed forward in just his boots, his satchel held loosely in one hand.

Branimir was faster than he was, and his fangs sunk into the flesh of Jean-Pierre’s shoulder even as he dragged him up into his arms. Jean-Pierre had no blackening at the edges of his vision, did not come close to losing consciousness, but his limbs went loose and lax, and he couldn’t move his body, couldn’t reach out, couldn’t _struggle_ , even.

The satchel dropped from his useless fingers.

He was as powerless as a doll as the spider turned around with him – he could close his eyes, at least, and he did as the spider bound his arms against his sides. He spun silk around the top of Jean-Pierre’s chest and shoulders, and bound his arms to his sides with as much of the sticking stuff as he could, although mercifully, he didn’t wrap much of it around him, so that his torso was mostly uncovered, except at his sides.

He folded Jean-Pierre’s legs up, too, and Jean-Pierre whimpered as Branimir stuck his thighs and calves fast together, so that even when he could move his legs they would be kept spread wide apart, and despite himself, he was still wet from the spider’s attention before, could feel himself dripping down between his buttocks.

He tried to talk, but all he could manage some moaned sounds, and the spider put his hands on Jean-Pierre’s body, stroked over his belly, pushed and palpated on the flesh there.

“I’m not going to eat you,” Branimir promised, squeezing him around his middle as he dropped him back onto the webbing, at waist height. “You’re so big – so warm-blooded. It would be a waste.”

Waste?

The spider pressed more fingers into him than he had before, two from each hand, pushing at his lips to spread them as far as he could, and Jean-Pierre groaned, feeling himself throb under the pressing touch.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the spider said gently, leaning over him his fingers roaming over Jean-Pierre’s skin. “You’re hardier than a human, you said. And you have no eggs… I can fix that.”

The ovipositor – he knew that was what it was, he was paralysed, not insensible – was as thick as his arm at its base, but it had a tapered tip, and Jean-Pierre was reminded of every time he’d ever been fisted, the way someone first curved their fingers together as they pushed inside him, to make the insertion easier.

He was sopping wet, and the ovipositor was covered in a slick mucus that tingled where it touched him: insertion was too easy by far, and he moaned as the spider began to fuck its way inside him.

He was working his jaw, trying to make it shift, and when he spoke, he slurred his words, and struggled to sound them out, but he could talk. “That’s it,” he said, as the spider’s cock dragged inside him, thick enough to press at his walls and send pleasure dragging up his spine, “fuck… me... Just— Fuck me, and… and you can… let me go.”

The spider smiled at him very kindly as he put his hands around Jean-Pierre’s hips, and dragged him down in one hard movement: the base of his cock forced Jean-Pierre’s cunt to spread wide, and Jean-Pierre screamed, because its tapered tip was forced inside him too, deep enough that he could feel his belly shift.

“So warm,” he praised, and Jean-Pierre heaved in a choking, sobbed gasp as the first huge egg, big as a tennis ball, slide up the length of Branimir’s ovipositor. It felt good where it pressed inside his cunt, dragging at the spongey flesh of his g-spot, but as it slid further forward, it _hurt_.

There was a pained, pinching sensation as the egg was forced into his womb, and already, more eggs were coming: three eggs in quick succession, each of them popping into his pussy, dragging hard inside him—

The pain faded, fat egg by fat egg, and by the ten or eleventh, the pain was almost gone: there was only a strange, uncanny sensation of being stretched, and the strange release when the egg popped inside him, nudging against the others already stuffed there.

Already from the outside, his belly seemed lumpy, stuffed as full as it was with egg after egg, and Jean-Pierre was aware he was breathing heavily, letting out whimpered little sounds as the eggs let down. They were entering him in a stream, now, the only resistance coming as they popped past the ring of muscle that should have stopped them from dropping into his womb, each one of them a battering thrust against his g-spot: his clit was fat and swollen, and when Branimir shifted his position, the rough hairs of his abdomen dragged and scratched at Jean-Pierre’s clit.

His orgasm gushed out of him, and he was aware he was yelling, crying out, as Branimir’s eggs poured into him as though the spider was trying to fill him to the brim.

He tried to count them, but he couldn’t.

He rode them through his orgasm, rode the fortieth at the crest of it, but they kept on going, and he sobbed that he was oversensitive, cried that it was too much, that he’d be ripped apart: the eggs were shoved tight up against one another now, forcing his belly to bulge out strangely from his body, its surface a mess of fat, rounded balls. The tears were hot and slick on his cheeks: every egg that forced its way into his womb pushed the other eggs outward, and Jean-Pierre could _see_ his belly moving, its surface disturbed with the push of each new egg.

They were heavy.

By the seventieth, they were packed in him so tightly that he could see the shape of them forced into the flesh of his belly, could feel that they each had a rough surface marked over with indentations, each of them dimpled all over like a parody of a huge golf ball.

His skin was roiling with it, ballooning outward with the eggs, more and more of them, too many – there must have been three hundred or more by the time the spider had finally laid his clutch. He almost couldn’t believe it when the sensation stopped – how many orgasms had he had, impaled like this on the spider’s ovipositor, stuffed so full of eggs a human would have been split open by them? Too many: he felt light-headed and his whole cunt _throbbed_ with overstimulation, and he felt bruised from the inside. He felt like he was on the verge of pissing himself, every egg shoving his guts up toward his rib cage, and he wondered where all his organs were, if the obscenity of his swollen stomach was crushing them.

“There,” the spider said, with a satisfied sigh, and as he slowly pulled himself out, Jean-Pierre felt the tug of the ovipositor out of him: he felt something shift inside him, and he prayed for the eggs to fall free, but none of them did. He whimpered, trying to wriggle in his place, trying to clench his muscles, to force them out, but it just made him more aware of the terrible weight of every egg crammed into him.

He tried to move now, tried to shift – the venom was wearing off, but the eggs were so heavy now he couldn’t even move, couldn’t rock himself on the web he was stuck on, couldn’t shift his weight. He was utterly immobilised by the eggs, like he was nothing more than an egg sac with arms, legs, and wings, and as he started to sob, the spider slid his hands over Jean-Pierre’s engorged and swollen belly, pressing down on the overstuffed surface and making the eggs inside him roll and push against one another, pinching him from the inside.

“Very good,” he said, patting the pitted, knobbled surface of Jean-Pierre’s stuffed belly as though he were a prized pet.

“You can let me go now,” Jean-Pierre said.

“Oh,” Branimir said, and shook his head, still smiling kindly. “No…” He reached between Jean-Pierre’s spread thighs, stroking his fingers through the slick, dripping mess of his bruised and open cunt, and Jean-Pierre whimpered, shook his head. The spider tapped his clit, made him jump. “The eggs need time to grow. You’re so warm – they will grow quickly inside you.”

“Grow?” Jean-Pierre repeated breathlessly, horrified, terrified.

“Humans burst with it, sometimes,” Branimir said casually, beginning to press one egg after the another through his skin, each time pushing it into the others stuffed into him: they were so huge, so heavy, each one with a tough, rough-skinned skin, and he felt invaded by them, destroyed by them. He was nothing now but a vessel for them, for these eggs, nothing more than a brood pouch that could talk and beg and cry, but couldn’t get away. “Fae can take it, but they have to take a smaller clutch, but you, you’ve taken half my clutch. A human might have burst with just this, but not you… So warm, you’re perfect. No eggs of your own, all so you can take mine.”

“Let me go,” Jean-Pierre choked out, “let me go, let me—”

Gently, still with that sweet smile on his face, Branimir gently put silk over his mouth, gluing his lips together, and Jean-Pierre sobbed, screamed around it, couldn’t struggle, could only scream, and even that was muffled—

Branimir patted him once more on the stuffed sac of his belly and walked away like it was nothing.

*** * ***

For a few hours, Branimir left him in his place, even though Jean-Pierre exhausted himself trying to struggle out of the webbing keeping him stuck in place, screamed himself hoarse behind the web. He must have fallen asleep for a time, because when he woke up, he was higher in the trees, and more web had been wrapped around him in thick, white swathes around his torso and swollen gut – to keep him warm, they said.

They let his legs free, his arms free, but it didn’t matter – he could kick and struggle all he wanted, but even were he not stuck fast to the web that trapped him, caught, the weight of the eggs stuffed inside him was so much that he’d never be able to stand, that he couldn’t even tip himself one way or the other.

He was not, to the spiders, a person: he was a warm receptacle, a useful brood pouch that happened to cry now and then, and this minor irritation was acceptable because of the convenience he posed in other ways.

They fed him.

There were more spiders, dozens of them, and they fed him and gave him water and they washed him and kept him clean. His legs were individually wrapped, and toileting concerns aside, the spiders were interested in and invested in his cunt – the first few days, they played with his pussy, tugged at his clit and fingered him.

They were curious about the sounds he made, the way his cunt clenched and jumped under their exploring fingers, the way he dripped, the way he came.

“You are very thin, very lean, no matter how much we feed you,” one of them said to him as he rolled Jean-Pierre’s cunt between his thumb and forefingers. “All of your fat is here.” He squeezed Jean-Pierre’s fat lips and swollen clit between his fingers, and when he came, the spider was very pleased.

It was bad enough in the beginning, the hundreds of eggs stuffed in him, keeping him in place, but they grew.

It started immediately, the very next day, although he tried not to notice it, not to think about it, not to believe it: he knew that the eggs were growing not because he could feel them change in size, but because he could feel them grind and shift against each other inside him—

But they did get bigger.

After three days bound in web, a new spider came up to him, a spider he had not spoken to before, and he did not pull the sweet sap that another spider had gagged him with from around his lips, did not even talk to him. He was in conversation with another spider, talking about the webbing in the southern territory: it did not seem to occur to him that Jean-Pierre was even a thinking, living creature as he worked his shaft into Jean-Pierre’s cunt and forced it through the end muscle.

When Jean-Pierre screamed, the spider hushed him absent mindedly, patting his fat-stuffed belly so hard it made him feel like the eggs were about to rattle, but then the rush of thick, cold liquid started, and Jean-Pierre wailed and stared and gagged as his belly swelled out even further, ballooning with it. He could see it in his mind’s eye, and when he tried to kick and smack out at the spider’s hands, he laughed and held both of Jean-Pierre’s wrists in one great hand, and kept pumping him full.

Jean-Pierre’s skin expanded outward and the stretch _hurt_ under the web wrapped around him, expanded further until the web _tore_ , and he was sobbing again, he knew, sobbing, because he was a brood pouch, and he couldn’t do anything _but_ cry.

The spider smacked the side of the ballooning drum of his belly and it wobbled with the force of the blow, and Jean-Pierre screamed. The eggs weren’t so tightly packed inside him anymore because there was liquid in him too, and it had filled up the gaps between the eggs and then forced his skin to stretch outward, too: the eggs moved and bobbed in the water, rattled against each other and against his insides, and he sobbed.

Too many of them, too many eggs, hundreds of them, and he was more brood pouch than angel now, he was more belly than body: he felt as though someone had drawn him as a sphere and put his limbs on as an afterthought, and maybe that was all they’d ever be ever again.

Why hadn’t Asmodeus come for him? Why hadn’t anyone come for him?

Had he fucked up the text, fucked up the call for help – why wasn’t anyone _looking_ for him?

He felt like a planet filled with lava: he felt like a balloon filled with water and marbles: he felt like he was theirs, not his, anymore, and he’d never be his again.

The spider slapped his belly again, this time for the pleasure of seeing it wobble, and it _hurt_.

But he came anyway.

*** * ***

It was analogous to amniotic fluid, or something like it – its purpose was not to inseminate, but to nourish, and resting in its thick, heavy influence, the eggs were nourished: the softened, but they swelled, and it seemed to Jean-Pierre that every one of them doubled in size, more the size of a small melon than a tennis ball, and he kept his eyes closed as much as he could, because he couldn’t bear to look.

It had been weeks, _months_ , even.

He was gargantuan, destroyed, his skin stretched as surely as if they’d laid him on a rack to do it that way. He felt as though he were made of rubber, and eating was almost painful, because there was no _space_ in him, nothing left of him but spiders’ eggs.

Bloated with them, made so heavy he couldn’t think, couldn’t move, he wondered if he would die here – he had been worried, in the days when after their first beginning to absorb the fluid that had been pumped into him, that he would split apart and burst like so much overripe fruit, but it didn’t come.

He only _wished_ he was rubber, his flesh cured and treated so that it wouldn’t ache, but it did ache, it ached and he was so, so full, his body bubbling out with it, and sometimes he felt the eggs move inside him, and when he slept for a few hours at a time, between long periods of monotony or rare moments where one of the spiders would play with his cunt, he dreamed that they hatched inside of him and crawled out of him in hordes.

When they played with his cunt, at least, it was a distraction, but even if he tried to look, now, he couldn’t tell which one of them was touching him – he couldn’t _see_ , he was just…

It was a bright morning when one of them decided he was ready to lay.

He was woken up by it: fangs pierced his thigh at the same time as one of them pressed up and into him, and an egg let down. It was painful, a tight fit, and it stretched him impossibly wide as he clenched down on it, forcing it out until it pushed, a fat weight, out of the entrance of his cunt.

The next one was close behind.

He didn’t scream.

It almost didn’t occur to him to try.

*** * ***

Perhaps it should have left him all loose skin, like a fruit with all the juice suckled out of him, but he healed too quickly for that: his body had too much regenerative capacity. His bones were fragile, broke easily, but they repaired fast too, and it seemed that his skin saw fit to do the same.

By the time there were only three eggs left in him, it looked as though they had been freshly laid in him, three bowling balls stuffed into his womb and making three bulges in the flesh, and when they started to push on them, to force them out of him where his womb was too tired to do the rest of the work, he cried out.

One of them dragged and played with his clit as the next egg was forced out of him, and the worst thing about the agony was the way it made him come, and the desperate clenches made the last two eggs impossibly good to lay.

They were strange to look at, each one of them an anaemic white colour with a dark grey mass inside, and he could see them piled up and wrapped in a net of silk. They were bigger than he was, all piled up together, and when he looked at them, he could see them shake.

They would hatch within the day.

They’d taken him down from the web for him to lay, and there was no more web stuck to him, but he was exhausted. He tried to stand on his shaky knees, but they were weak from laying – it had been a day, two days, maybe, since he’d started, and his every muscle felt weak and loose.

He crawled to the edge of the clearing, and when he came onto the trodden surface of the undergrowth, he stopped on his knees and elbows, because he was looking not at tree roots or ferns or flowers, but at a pair of neatly polished brown Oxfords.

Dumbly, his throat hoarse from screaming, his lips still stuck together with sweet sap, Jean-Pierre looked up at his brother.

“I have your phone,” Asmodeus said, dropping into a loose crouch in front of him. He was impossibly graceful even doing that, and he reached out, peeling the sap away from Jean-Pierre’s mouth, doing something to it so that it didn’t even sting. “Your satchel, too, and your pocketknife, I know it’s your favourite. I found a box of matches, I presume they’re yours?”

Jean-Pierre nodded.

“Good,” Asmodeus murmured, reaching out and gently stroking his palm over the curve of Jean-Pierre’s cheek, and with the other hand, he reached out, gently drummed his fingers on the now-flat surface of his belly, which hurt, but Asmodeus’ fingers were warm, and Jean-Pierre sighed, leaning into his hands.

“You’ve come to take me home,” Jean-Pierre mumbled blearily.

“Yes, Jean, that’s right,” Asmodeus said. “But not just yet.”

“Not just—?”

“Oh, good, I was waiting,” said a voice behind him, and there was no forewarning, no preparation, nothing. The spider behind him took him up by the hips and dropped him down on the length of his ovipositor, and where Jean-Pierre was still loose and stretched and open, it impaled him. The eggs were flowing into him before he could take a breath, and he cried out, sobbed at the sensation of them pumping into him, too many, too fast, where he was already bruised on the inside—

“You like my brother?” asked Asmodeus, taking a step forward, and Jean-Pierre stared at him, betrayed, as the spider lifted him by his hips and dropped him again to change the angle he was fucking him at, and Asmodeus brushed his fingers over his belly, to feel where the flow was pumped into him.

“You are an angel too?” asked the spider curiously.

“Not like he is,” Asmodeus murmured, smiling up at Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre was too exhausted to be angry, too powerless, and when Asmodeus gently smeared sap over Jean-Pierre’s mouth, sealing his lips before anyone else moved to do it, Jean-Pierre didn’t even have it in him to be surprised.

“We would like to keep him,” said the spider. “He makes a good egg sac, and we like how wet he is inside.” Demonstratively, the spider reached under the bulging spread of Jean-Pierre’s filling belly while he still good, and spread Jean-Pierre’s lips apart, making him moan, clenching without meaning to. It shouldn’t have felt so good.

“You have him, Mikhail, and then Genadi.” Asmodeus said. “Six more months. But then I take him home.”

Jean-Pierre felt his eyes widen, but Mikhail’s thumb was rubbing at his clit now, and he could barely think between the stretching of his belly, the way he was being pumped full to the brim, once again – how many eggs would it be, this time? Three hundred? Five hundred? A thousand?

Would Asmodeus watch?

He whimpered, and Asmodeus reached up, took the sap away, and Jean-Pierre whined, “Don’t leave me?”

“Is that all you have to say?” Asmodeus asked, raising his eyebrows. “Don’t leave me? Ask me to make it stop, Jean, and I will. Ask me to raze this forest to the ground and take you home right this minute, I will.”

He couldn’t concentrate: Mikhail deposited a lot faster than Branimir did, and Mikhail’s fingers kept up the rhythm on his clit, and he was coming again, riding the crest of it through the hazy darkness of his self-awareness.

“Mmm,” Asmodeus hummed, sounding a thousand miles away, and sounding pleased. “That’s what I thought.”

Mikhail raised him up and dropped him again, and in this position, his belly hung out below him, and it was so much faster, he was _filling_ so much faster, and he couldn’t believe how small the eggs were, how tiny they felt compared to the clutch he’d just carried, because he was already half as big as he had been yesterday—

And then he remembered that they’d grow.

“Don’t leave me,” he said again, and Asmodeus chuckled, reaching up and touching his chin.

“I would never, Jean,” Asmodeus said sweetly. Jean-Pierre closed his eyes when he felt the camera flash – Asmodeus’ old Polaroid. “Spread his thighs apart, would you, Mikhail? You’ll get deeper that way.”

Jean-Pierre choked as Mikhail’s ovipositor forced another two inches inside him.

“That’s what I like to see,” Asmodeus purred, and Jean-Pierre closed his eyes as the camera flashed again.


End file.
